The Cape: Acta Est Fabula
by Alydia Rackham
Summary: Vince, despite his secret superhero status as the Cape, could not prevent the death of his wife in a gang drive-by. Worse, his partner, Orwell, is losing her mind to a neurotoxin. Now, Vince's search for revenge may turn up more than he imagined.


_You know my writing. You know the caliber of stories I produce, and that I update quickly when properly motivated. So come along for the ride—this will be a good one. The poem is called "The Unquiet Grave." Enjoy, and please review!_

_VVVVVVVVV_

The Cape: Acta Est Fabula

"_The wind doth blow today, my love,_

_And a few small drops of rain;_

_I never had but one true-love,_

_In cold grave she was lain."_

VVV

It poured. Wind whipped and hissed, catching and tossing the sheets of falling water like the sails of a ship. The rain beat down on Vince Faraday's deep hood, rushed across his shoulders and streamed down the liquid black of his tumbling Cape. He sat perched on a broad, slick gargoyle atop a skyscraper, his head bowed as he stared, unseeing, at the fathomless canyon below him. Up here, the city looked like a grid—a network of bright lines cut up by broad squares of shadow. Up here, the noise of it did not reach him. He could not hear the simmering unrest of the people. He couldn't see the chaos of the city.

But he could feel the full boil of the storm. A storm that was barely a breath of wind compared to the hurricane in his heart.

His wife was dead.

That thought still felt so foreign to him—like a chunk of ice tumbling through a metal pipe where water ought to flow. It spun through his head, a phrase in a different language, a meaning he couldn't decipher. All he was left with were facts—the bones of reality.

His wife, Dana Faraday, had been walking across the street with their son, Trip, three afternoons ago. A gold, vintage car had pulled up behind them, and the passengers had begun shooting at a group of ARK policemen on the neighboring sidewalk. Dana had been caught in the crossfire—hit in the head by a gang member while shielding Trip with her body.

It had happened in a moment. No one could prevent it, no policeman could even get his bearings long enough to catch a license plate number or ID a face. And before the echoes of the gunfire had died down, the gangsters had leaped back in their car and sped away.

That was all Vince had. A report on the nightly news—a paragraph, a few brief pictures of the other victims. A blank-faced detective giving a short statement to a group of cameras. A cutaway to a commercial that he never saw, because his vision had gone black and his breathing had locked up in his chest.

If he had been there, he would have torn his throat with an inhuman wail. He would have disregarded the hail of gunfire—he would have raced to her side, fallen on his knees and taken her slender form in his arms. He would have called out her name, searching her lovely face for any signs of life. He would have stroked back her fire-colored hair from her perfect brow. He would have kissed her lips. That is, if he had not gotten there in time to throw his own body in front of that single bullet.

But he had not been there. He had not even been in the neighborhood. If Orwell had been paying closer attention to the security cameras she had hacked, he might have been able to get there just in time to see Dana's body wheeled to an ambulance on a gurney. But Orwell had not been watching lately. And Vince had been blindsided.

Since then, he had screamed. Yes, screamed, and broken his right hand on a wall. Knocked over the table in his subterranean lair and sent all its contents tumbling and crashing. He had staggered through the parks, through the seedy alleys, looking for fights. His friends at the Carnival of Crime, those he had hidden amongst and fought alongside, tried to speak to him, but he couldn't tolerate the sound of their sympathetic voices, or the feel of their stunned, worried glances. He had not slept five minutes, nor had he even sat down, before news reached him that Dana was to be buried.

He had gone to the funeral. Well, he had gotten as close as he dared. He had watched from behind a tree as her white casket was lowered into the ground, while birds sang, and the golden afternoon sunlight had beamed across the entire gathering. Trip had clung to Marty's chest and sobbed. Marty and his wife just stood there, their expressions distant with shock. And Vince had felt himself shatter into smaller pieces than could ever be recovered.

Now, he sat paralyzed, drenched in the rain of the storm that had come up mere hours after the conclusion of the funeral. His wife was out in the rain tonight—the water and dirt soaked into her—so why should he be any more comfortable?

He blinked, as streams of water ran down the sides of his face and dripped off his eyelashes. He wanted to throw himself off this parapet. He wanted to fold his arms and close his eyes as he tumbled like a stone, and put an end to this raging hot pain.

But he couldn't. The sight of Trip, with his arms wrapped around Marty, was burned into his head.

He couldn't abandon his boy.

But neither could he just let him be. Not anymore.

Vince moved. It felt like his muscles were made of lead. He leaned back, and slowly scooted backward, off the gargoyle and onto the ledge. He rose up. The Cape flicked heavily around his ankles, giving a deep rustle of discontent. Vince took a short breath, ignoring the twinge from his still-healing ribs. He turned, and headed through the pelting rain toward the shadowed door on the roof.

It was time to go get his son.

TBC

_Please review, so that I will want to continue!_


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